Indiana Jones and the Shadow of Death
by Indus Belethil
Summary: IX is up, after a very long time. I hope that someone still reads this!
1. Same Old Thing

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Indy, Marcus, Belloq or anyone else particularly recognizeable from Indiana Jones books/movies. Or anyone else's fanfictions for that matter.

_Revised again. I can't help myself, but I don't think you'll mind. I'm only making it better. (Hopefully.)_

Indiana Jones and the Shadow of Death

I

The rainforest was stifling, a temperature of a little less than one hundred degrees coupled with unbearable humidity. The archaeologist moved with caution, hesitantly putting one foot in front of the other, unsure of whether his next movement would throw him off balance. Breathing was as difficult as movement; heat, sweat and nerves crippled his lungs, perspiration cascaded down his face. The atmosphere was alive with sound and movement: leaves rustled, frogs croaked, shadows flitted, and sporadic breaths burst through heat-chapped lips.

The archaeologist raised a shaking hand to his face and drew it across his brow; his fingers were uncharacteristically cold and damp with nervousness. wrapped around his other wrist was the reason he had come: At the end of a long chain dangled a solid gold Brazilian tribal pendant inlaid with sapphire and jade, dating back as far as 668 B.C. The locals called it the Jewel of the Siharuk Cayatana. Sure, this wasn't as significant a thing as the Ark or the Grail - or even the Cross of Coronado - but enough for it to feel a part of him. His gaze brimmed with an almost paternal pride as it caught a faint shimmer of gold. Edging along the rough bark, the archaeologist told himself that the worst would be over after just a few more steps.

A foreboding hiss sounded from the dusk mere inches away. Indy tried to swallow, but a lump had grown in his throat; nervous sweat laced his brow. One hand gripped the pendant, so tightly that the knuckles turned white, while the other reached for the revolver.

A nearly inaudible groan escaped Indy's throat. _God, it's inevitable._

Indiana felt the limb beneath his feet snap and watched his revolver plummet to the forest floor, horrified. Snakes didn't matter at the moment; the immobile Jones was suddenly more afraid of falling than being bitten. Instinctively his free hand reached outward seeking something to hold onto, and what it found was twenty pounds of angry viper. Tumbling backward with an involuntary yell, he dodged a split-second strike, catching the gleam of two venom-bathed fangs in the faded light.

After crashing through a few feet of foliage, Indy landed with a groan on the rainforest floor. Luckily he hadn't hit anything very hard on the way down. Slightly injured, the archaeologist propped himself up on his elbows and dusted off his fedora. Though his mind reeled and temples throbbed, Indiana propelled himself to stand up. Too fast, he decided, when he felt himself reeling and near black-out point. Using the trunk of a gargantuan tree, he steadied his quaking limbs.

Chest heaving, heart pounding, Indy imagined he heard drumbeats off in the distance and tried to dismiss the notion as absurd, a product of his anxiety. Hurriedly he began the search for his gun, still holding the artifact tightly in his palm. The chain cut savagely into his wrist now, increasing the pain that he already felt. A few minutes later Indy gave the revolver up for lost, half musing that someday another archaeologist would be out there, wrestling for his life trying to put it in a museum.

The rhythmic pounding grew louder and Indy had to seriously rethink his earlier dismissal. What if somebody was following him; what if it was the same old thing all over again? He wasn't teaching a class anymore, in limbo of transfer between his old University and the one in New York, so nobody there had been notified of his absence. Indy hadn't breathed a word to even Marcus or Dad. . . No guide this time, either. So what was left uncovered?

Even though he was fairly confident he hadn't missed anything, it was better to play it safe. Indy's hand slid deftly to his holster, only to discover empty leather. It was a habitual action; he cursed himself inwardly for having dropped the damn thing.

As the adventurer's fingers darted to the bullwhip still coiled at his waist, a figure emerged unannounced from the gathering gloom. Its presence loomed mockingly over Indiana and his accomplishment, shuddering with a malicious chuckle.

"Let's see you get out of this one, Jones," the form spoke, a jeering quality to its Parisian accent.

Indy's jaw clenched as his glare pierced the shadows that shrouded his long-time adversary.

Indy's utterance was almost more growl than intelligible speech. He glanced up, narrowing his eyes into the distance. "I see you've invited friends again, Belloq; they're almost ugly enough to be your type."

The Frenchman, raising an eyebrow, gestured to the multitude of natives that stood poised behind him. "Hah. No friends of mine, I assure you," he mulled, "They do have their good qualities, though. Very fond of killing, for example." His eyes, full of mockery and pride, met Indy's; his words were an attempt to toy with the archaeologist's sanity. A stone-cold steely glare told Belloq it wasn't working. With a casual shrug he continued. "And after this, I just might let them. I really have no use for you anymore. Be a good little archaeologist and hand it over, hm?" It was clear that Belloq and Indy were no longer equals in Belloq's eyes, as the Frenchman had suggested long ago in a Cairo cafe. Whether it was the heat, or the urge to forget the memory, Indy could only recall a vague remembrance of the conversation they'd had. _We're not so different, you and I_. . . The words bubbled abruptly to the surface of his mind, echoing eerily. A new anger burned in his eyes.

"Or what?"

Indiana didn't care much how Belloq had found out, and wasn't in a position to inquire anyway. Obstinacy was the best policy here, if he wanted any sort of a chance to escape - even though it was looking less likely every second.

René paused with a hand stretched expectantly outward. His chest rose and fell slightly with each haughtily drawn out breath and moonlight glistened in his eyes. It seemed an eon before he spoke. "Professor, you can't delay destiny. Buyers can't wait forever. . . and neither can I. Test my patience this last time, and you'll beg to be back with the Nazis before long." The corners of his mouth twisted upward in a victor's grin.

Indy's fingers clenched the edges of the artifact as he hugged it to his thigh; cruel stony facets bit into his palm. The eyes beneath his battered fedora brim flitted across the faces of the aborigine, catching little more than smears of red and black on their cheeks. The warriors glared unblinkingly back at Indy, but he could feel that they weren't focusing on him so much as on the gold that peeked through the cracks of his protective hand.

The Amazon settled deeper into darkness, and the cornered Jones heaved a heavy sigh. Using his shoulders against the tree, he pushed himself wholly to his feet. Belloq and the natives tensed in alarm.

Movement in the back of their ranks caught Indy's attention; a dart whizzed perilously close past Belloq's left cheek and into the bark above his shoulder. With a countenance of firm resolve, Indy shook the chain from his wrist. _I let him do it twice, and I'll be damned if he ever takes anything from me ever again. _He cocked his arm and pitched the pendant in a high arc above the tribesmen. Indy hated to lose another artifact, but this would be his last - Indy could see as Belloq scrambled for the artifact that the natives would kill him, and took satisfaction from the fact that this final time, Belloq was the helpless one.

Slipping deftly off through the trees, leaving the demise he knew was coming to his nemesis far behind him, Indy recalled that a girl once told him that he might die doing such dangerous things. Smiling to himself, Indy's answer still applied.

Maybe, but not today.


	2. The Morning After

**Disclaimer: **Nope, don't own it. If we come across anything that I do own, I'll tell you. .

Indiana Jones and the Shadow of Death

II

An explosion of light hit Indy in the face, feeling immensely foreign, harsh and bright. he moaned ruefully and squeezed his eyes shut, pulling handfuls of blankets over his head. _It's too damn early. . ._

Bare feet pattered in soft rhythm on worn hardwood across the room, from the window to a cushioned armchair near the door. The slim brunette - bright mischievous eyes gleaming - laughed breathlessly to herself. Sighing abruptly, she paused and then walked back toward the bed, running her fingers over the folds in the sheets. Another groan of protest sounded from beneath the bundle of blankets.

Indy's muffled voice followed a few seconds later. "Go back to sleep, will ya?"

"You're a hell of a lot lazier than I remembered you," she said, sitting down. The hint of a wry smile lighted on her face.

"Yeah, maybe a bit, but it's not like I can help it."

One of her eyebrows perked inquiringly. "Why not?"

Indy relinquished the covers and tucked them underneath his chin. "I dreamed again, Marion - about Belloq." The mention of him made her skin crawl. "I. . . can't seem to leave him in the past, you know?" His eyes narrowed at the ceiling. For some time now, the archaeologist had been haunted by things from his past exploits. It wasn't always Belloq; virtually anyone who had ever been involved with his projects entered his thoughts, sometimes even plagued them.

Marion shifted herself more toward the center of the bed. "The whole experience is something neither of us will ever forget," she said, pausing in thought, then adding, "Do you think it could mean something?"

"Like?" He was going to say, 'Like Belloq's going to come back from the dead?' but decided this was not the most opportune time to let his sarcasm take the best of him.

"Maybe there's something else you're supposed to be doing. Jones, you were built for adventure; sitting around teaching and. . . collecting _dust_ isn't your thing." He looked at her with the implication of a shrug. It did sound like she was describing some moldy, centuries old artifact rather than himself. Her gaze had been resting lightly on Indy when she started talking, but now held the weight of a heavier thought. "Weren't you always telling me how unlike your father you are? Sometimes I see a lot of him in you." The words bit like shrapnel.

Indy slid out of bed and stood by the window, looking out upon the bustling Manhattan streets. The people were no more than spiders to Indy, moving frantically this way and that, caught up in the web of life. He felt trapped in his own web now. "I'm nothing like my father."

"Have you looked at yourself lately?"

The truth was, he really hadn't. Not deeply. In the window Indy could see a faint reflection of himself and as he glanced at it, his mind's eye told him something that he wasn't ready to admit: he _was _becoming more and more like his dad. And while Indy realized he'd never be ready to identify with that - would never allow himself to turn into his father - he was undeniably changed. Watching his father nearly die a few months before had been more of a dose of reality than he could handle. Practicality was slowly creeping in on him; spontaneous adventure became less and less the way he wanted to live these days. "You weren't there, Marion. What happened with the Grail wasn't fun and games - it was serious. Dad was dying. . . and I almost couldn't save him." A brief, sick feeling constricted Indy's stomach.

Though it was true that Marion hadn't been there, she'd heard the story a few times since she'd come back to visit - as many times as to give her a clear picture of how it looked and felt when Henry was shot; enough, almost to make her wish she had returned from Nepal in time to be there for him. Why had she gone back to that godforsaken country anyway? She thought a moment. Her father's things. . . yes, that was it. Marion had gone to collect the few valuable bits of Abner's "junk" that survived the Raven fire, because she owed it to him. What was supposed to have been a short trip turned into a lengthy and unwanted vacation.

The spirited brunette rose and moved toward Indy, whose back was still to her. Putting a hand on his shoulder, she squeezed it lightly. "He's alive now, though - don't think about it anymore. What's past is past; all you can do is move on."


	3. An Unwelcome Surprise

**Disclaimer:** ( see _disclaimer_, previous chapter )

Indiana Jones and the Shadow of Death

**III**

Indy sat at the kitchen table amidst a toppled stack of term papers. He pushed away the mug of black coffee he'd been drinking and leaned back in his chair, staring at the steam. The black liquid swirling in the cup was much like Indy's mind: a cloudy turmoil. He had nearly lost his capability for rational thought.

"It doesn't make any sense. . ." the puzzled archaeologist muttered beneath his breath. _She may be spontaneous, but she's not crazy_.

Indy squinted at a crumpled note that lay atop the other papers - reason enough that he hadn't been grading anything. Clenching his jaw in thought, the archaeologist ran his fingers over Marion's handwriting. Smoothing out the paper, he read it more slowly this time, hoping to pick up whatever minute details his eyes could have missed.

Catching a plane? It still sounded foreign. The words went sluggishly through his mind, and Indy shook his head, disbelieving. No, Marion hasn't said anything about leaving in the whole time she's been here. I would have remembered. . . She wouldn't leave me in the dark on this, either, would she? He sighed, a sharp exhalation. Something didn't add up.

Taking the note, Indy stood and moved toward the door, wearing an expression halfway between confusion and resolve. Slipping his arms hurriedly into his jacket, Indy paused with one hand on the doorknob.

He knew he had to do something to find her, but was this too rash? Maybe he should stay and try to figure out more of this before just running out after her like some kind of hot-blooded kid. Indy instantly decided against staying, knowing it wouldn't achieve anything besides rattled nerves and wasted time. Marion was right. This Jones wasn't made to sit around.


	4. A Visitor

**Disclaimer:** To own it or not to own it? Ooops, I don't. Indy and co. belong to Lucas/Spielberg.

Indiana Jones and the Shadow of Death

IV

Pausing only to hastily fix his fedora to his head, Indy licked his lips and crammed the folded note into his pocket. The makings of a plan congealed in the archaeologist's mind as his tingling fingers turned the doorknob. Nothing became concrete thought; the young Jones had faint and flitting ideas, clouded by an imminent feeling of helplessness. He concentrated, brought an image of Marion to mind, tried to remember everything about her, anything that could give him a clue. Indy's other hand rested for a moment on the outside of his jacket, directly over the place in his pocket where he had stuffed the note. Beneath the rough and weathered leather was the only tangible link between him and Marion, the only thing he had to go on. . .

The door swung open. Indy stopped short, jolted back to reality.

"Hello, Indy," said an equally surprised Marcus Brody, whose hand was suspended in midair, poised to knock. He lowered it casually and stuck it in his pocket. "Going somewhere, I see?" Marcus added, noting his friend's impatient stance. He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Yeah. Sorry, Marcus, I don't really have time." Indy's eyes slid swiftly to the staircase, and then back to his unexpected - although not unwelcome - visitor.

The older man was a long-time friend of both Indy and his father, and had gone on many a prolonged expedition with the Joneses. All this time had taught Marcus exactly what he needed to know about his friends - in fact, just about everything there was. He barely had to look at Indy to sense that something was amiss, it was merely in the particulars that his knowledge was lacking. Marcus was overcome by a slightly confused frown. "Is something wrong?"

"You could say that." The archaeologist, inwardly as confused as Marcus was outwardly, absentmindedly patted his pocket. He stepped entirely out of the apartment and closed the door. Indy refused to admit that the choking sensation welling up inside of him meant that he was worried. No, he told himself, I'm not worried. I'm _concerned_. The archaeologist had always been the one to get everyone else out of a jam. Now, something small - and for all he knew, relatively commonplace - had gotten him all shaken up. None of his in-a-pinch heroics could solve this dilemma, and that unnerved him. Indy swallowed and clenched his jaw. Hiding it was useless; no matter how he tried, Indy knew Marcus would know. They were too close for hiding behind façades.

The troubled Jones sighed. "I'm worried something has happened to Marion-" He stopped, bit his words off. _Damnit, I'm not worried_. He ridiculed himself for the slip. "She left without saying anything about it, and even though she left me a note, I can't shake the suspicion." Marcus gave him a bit of a 'girls will be girls' look for reassurance, but could see that Indy begged to differ. Marcus called to mind that Indy had once left Marion, without even so much as a note. If this was some sort of revenge on her part, at least she had done him that courtesy. "It might be nothing, but I need to be sure. Her leaving was just so. . . abrupt."

Indy's urgency and uneasiness was becoming contagious, and Marcus had to fight it off with the effort of rationalization, for both their sakes. "You're sure she's said absolutely nothing?" He paused. "Mind if I read the note?"

"No, go ahead."

Marcus sidled next to Indy as his friend withdrew the dogeared paper from his jacket. The older man's eyes scanned the page, his brow furrowed slightly by the time he finished. "Did you call the airport?"

Indy shook his head. "Phone's not hooked up yet. Besides, I was planning on going down there." He sighed and replaced the note, staring resignedly at the wall for a moment. "But if that doesn't turn up anything, I don't know what I'll do next."

Marcus followed his friend slowly across the landing to the top of the stairs. Indy started to descend but stopped two steps down, when he felt his friend hesitate behind him. "I realize that I don't know Marion half so well as you do-" Marcus began, and Indy shot an ironic, although knowing look back at him which implied that even Indy might not know her half as well as _he_ thought. "-and I don't know how much help I would be, but I'd like to go with you. The company might help you to relax a little, and there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about anyway."

Indy stared at the wall in front of him, didn't turn around. "Sure, Marcus. Thanks." He continued easily down toward the lobby with Marcus close behind.


	5. Curious Notes

Disclaimer: Pfft. If only I were genius enough to invent Indiana Jones (and all the places and characters therein). If only I were George Lucas/Steven Spielberg. If only... :p

V

In less than a minute they had arrived on the main floor of the apartment building. It was relatively large as lobbies go, and thoughtfully decorated with potted plants in the corners, and a few padded chairs on the left, surrounding in an artful half-circle a table with various reading materials laid out in fan fashion. The walls were painted a whitish color that looked almost as if it had a blue tint depending on what light you viewed it in. It was a very articulately planned and furnished room, but busy New York tenants rarely spent enough time there to enjoy it; the uniformed clerk behind the counter was generally the only person that stayed for longer than 10 minutes at a time.

Indy paid no notice to the lobby whatsoever, heading straight for the door that would release them into the sprawling city streets. He felt the pressure of Marcus' hand on his arm. The young Jones turned to acknowledge Marcus, who looked at him with the shadow of an amiable smirk. "Has it really been so long since your last outing that you've forgotten the secrets of the chase?" Marcus motioned to the desk, where the uniformed man fiddled with mailbox keys and the buttons on his shirt. "As any good archaeologist should know, the biggest clues lie in the details." Marcus turned his eyes back from the jaded clerk to his hasty friend.

Indy paused and smiled tiredly, rerouting himself toward the front desk behind which his mail was kept. Playing along he said, "Mind if I check my mail, Marcus? I promise I won't be too long." His mood lightened a degree, although he was highly skeptical that this would turn anything up. But even if he gained no other information here, Indy discovered a deeper awareness for the value of Marcus' company.

After a few drawn-out seconds of watching the clerk - whose back was turned to Indy - pretending to be busy dusting mailboxes, Indy began to think this would take longer than he'd expected. The archaeologist tapped his fingers lightly on the mahogany and cleared his throat. The clerk, upon closer inspection proving to be a boy of about twenty, turned and brushed the sandy brown hair out of his eyes. "How may I help you, sir?"

Indy hated being called sir. Professor was fine, as long as he wasn't being mocked; he actually relished his profession. Sir just made him feel old, and Junior. . . well, everybody knew how he felt about being called that. The usual clerk, who was God knows where, generally called him Dr. Jones, which he preferred. Today, though, Indy wasn't about to waste time correcting some adolescent yahoo who was probably the landlord's nephew. "Anything for Jones?" he asked, and seeing the boy fumbling for the keys added, "Box 210," and smiled curtly.

The small metal door squeaked open. "No, sir." Indy went to leave, shrugging mildly at Marcus as if to say, 'Thanks, I tried,' humoring him. "Have a nice. . . wait, did you say 'Jones?'"

The professor looked back, mid-shrug. He dropped his shoulders and raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

The boy's awkward hands pushed the mailbox closed, and not bothering with the keys, came to rest on a stack of ill-organized notes. Indy could only suppose they were messages, and couldn't keep himself from performing the mental equivalent of an eye-roll as he watched the clerk shuffle through. Finally he found a few pieces of paper being handed to him.

"I'm glad I caught you, sir," the boy said, nervous, nodding. "A lady that came by said you'd probably be really interested in one of those." He smiled, put his hands in his pockets, and let the sandy brown hair creep back over his eyes.

The archaeologist blinked and shuffled through the messages. Out of the five or six he'd gotten, Indy's eyes paid most only a fleeting glance. Recognizing Marion's handwriting, he stopped and tried to make his hand stop trembling. Marcus, noticing that something was in fact occurring, ambled closer to his anxious friend to share in whatever news this might bring.

The young archaeologist's eyes absorbed the words almost too quickly for his brain to digest them.

_Ah, Jones._ _You never give up, do you?. . . _He could imagine her sigh._ I realize the note that I left for you may have made my leaving sound a little bit rash - and even now I might miss my plane - but don't worry. I'll be back before you know it, and then I'll explain. Didn't want to bother you. Just yet._

Marion

Indy folded her second note up thoughtfully after he was sure Marcus had read it. He was still a shade wary, but grateful nevertheless for Marcus' instincts, which might again prove to save him a lot of trouble, as they had so many times past. "What do you think?" He looked into the older man's face, asking for the honest answer he knew Marcus would give him. Indy probably could have guessed the response, but some remaining thread of previous nervousness made him want to hear it anyway.

The last of his concern melting away, Marcus smiled slightly with his eyes. "I'm beginning to suspect you're making a bit too much of things. Remember, people aren't like artifacts; they can actually come to _you._" Withdrawing a hand from his pocket, he rested it lightly on the side of his face. With an air of pensive curiosity, he asked, "Did you read your other messages?"

Indy took Marcus' words at face value and nodded slowly in agreement. His good-natured half-grin returning, he said, "Thanks, Marcus, I'll remember that." Pausing, reconsidering, he realized it had made a lot of sense. Marion would come back when she was ready. He placed her second note in the same pocket as the first and turned his attentions to the remaining scraps of paper.

The first was a reminder that the fall term would be starting up again 'sooner than he knew it,' and invited him to take part in a speaking tour of the eastern United States concerning projected digs in Saudi Arabia and Egypt. Although honored to be acknowledged as one of the best in his profession, Indy mentally set the prospect aside. It was nice, but not what he needed at the moment. Besides, some of the "colleagues" he figured would be attending were the drippy and dry sorts that rich guys' kids pay big money to hear droning on and on, with the all-familiar detached enthusiasm, about all the unnecessary points of sifting through sand. Not exactly his type. Most of the ones that were good friends of the Professor's were out in the field. This had been an unusually busy season for archaeology.

The next few pieces of paper yielded messages from old friends and college acquaintances that must have heard of Jones' move, and were stopping in the city for a few days. Out of the invitations to coffee and lunch, Indy gleaned only one that he'd consider taking up. Any visit with Gregory Hamilton - one of the more animated archaeology professors that Indy had ever met, and a good friend of his father's - promised to be an interesting one. If he had the time, Indy told himself, he'd give the man a call.

Indy squinted at the final scrap. The handwriting was hard to read, but not intentionally. Marcus shifted, perking Indy to the fact that he'd known something about this that he hadn't let on.


	6. Antiquitas Aeturnus

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything, it seems. Oh, wait! Except... Yes, in this chapter we find the Bingham Metropolitan (yada yada), which isn't a real museum in New York City - although it'd be cool if t'were - Alicia Porter, and Ivan... Ivan... Oh, just ask Marcus (who, we've found _isn't_ mine).

Indiana Jones and the Shadow of Death

**VI**

The companions stepped from the apartment building with Indy leading the way south down the street. There was a paved sidewalk running parallel to the road, decorated with small trees every few hundred feet, budding blossoms in pink and red. Summer floral displays swayed at their feet. The two men merged into the crowd and followed the flow of people toward their destination.

"So what's this all about?" Indy asked quickly, raising a quizzical eye from the cracks in the sidewalk passing underfoot to look at Marcus.

Indy's friend looked at him with an absentminded smile that reflected the warmth of the late-summer sun that brightened the bustling streets. He answered somewhat slowly, not caught up in the rush of the big city; it was obvious he was currently more concerned with the enjoyment of the walk rather than the pace. "I thought you'd catch on," Marcus said, shielding his eyes from the glare as they passed from the shadow of a tall building. "It's a proposition of sorts — one I thought you'd be perfect for, considering your recent... slump." Marcus cleared his throat in the pause. Indy endured the discomfort the comment had given him begrudgingly, conceding that it was the truth. Marcus became more serious, instantly filled with a sudden urgency and excitement, drawing closer to Indy. He spoke as if he were confiding a well-guarded secret.

"Indy, if what I've been told is correct, this is a project of unbelievable — _astronomical_ — proportions." Marcus looked to Indy, anticipating the remark that would prove he'd sated the archaeologist's interest.

The young Jones was suddenly jostled by the crowd, and nearly tripped over a businessman who seemed concerned with little else than the front-page of the Wall Street Journal. Shrugging off the shove, Indy regarded Marcus warily. His experience and his gut affirmed the magnitude of what his friend was saying. But whatever it was, and whoever was looking for it, wouldn't matter... unless he chose to delve deeper. At this point, Indy wasn't convinced this was a drama in which he wanted to play a role.

"Are we talking about having another Ark on our hands?"

Marcus spoke in a voice quiet with the promise of danger and the glimmer of opportunity. "Dare I say, this could be bigger."

Indy let out a low whistle. The archaeologist in him pleaded for a chance to pursue the prospect, to find out more. The sense in him — newfound and struggling for a toehold — argued and forbade.

The subtle struggle did not go unnoticed.

"Though it's nothing you couldn't handle, I'm sure."

Indy accepted Marcus's reassurance as sincere. Few people believed as much in him. _Asking a few questions won't mean I have to do anything, _the Archaeologist considered.

"Are you being vague because you don't want to scare me, or did they just not tell you any of the details?"

This comment Marcus took as an open invitation for divulgence. "I was called to the museum this morning," Brody said, swallowing, "and found myself in the presence of a roomful of IAPA people, among others."

"The International Archaeology and Preservation Association," Indy mumbled thoughtfully. So the government was getting involved, hands-on. Although they may have been more than qualified in the field, the Professor was skeptical of any fed agents brought into the mix, as any self-respecting archaeologist should be. Luckily Indy was about as good at dodging red tape as anything. "Who else?"

"Hardly any others of particular interest." Marcus paused, visualizing the events of the morning. As the memory played through, Marcus suddenly recognized more faces. "Ah, I do remember that the last two to arrive were Alicia Porter and her advisor, Ivan…" He snapped his fingers as if he believed the impact would spark further recall, until the withdrawn revelation gave into his coaxing. "Hastings, yes, that's it."

"Alicia," Indy uttered with a long, drawn out breath. The professor remembered her well, though they had only connected briefly when he'd had business in France. That was a year ago. Alicia Porter wasn't a woman who slipped many minds, and Indy was finding it difficult to fulfill the want to push her from his thoughts. In light of Marion's all too recent disappearance, thinking about another woman – in any capacity – now, made him feel uncomfortable and guilty. Yet, involuntarily Indy's heartbeat quickened and his footsteps fell with more anxious purpose.

At five minutes to ten o'clock, Indy and Marcus came within sight of their target: a fairly tall, wide building that commanded the cityscape not with architectural intimidation but with mystery and poise. The pedestrian mob had thinned quickly as people trickled off in different directions, preoccupied with engagements of business, pleasure, a flighty cocktail of both, or – in duller cases – neither. Parting the sea of briefcase-laden stragglers, the professor and his gray-haired fellow found themselves nearly on the front steps of the hallowed establishment, revealing its entire front to their eyes. The structure was hewn from pure granite, heavy and majestic, that among the monsters of the metropolis seemed so incredibly timeless that it once might have been a mighty temple of the gods, standing in solitude and splendor on some peak sired by Mount Olympus. Here, torn from its lofty foundation and implanted into modern civilization, the building was the sole monastery of a seemingly dying religion.

The columns that held up the enormous stone façade had always reminded Indy of the titanic arms of Atlas, corded muscle taught beneath the weight of the earth that rested in his immortal palm. But there were interesting things about its form other than columns: On the surface of the granite, chiseled illustrations depicted legends and stories, the enigmatic history of archaeology at a glance, a sight which never ceased to take Marcus's breath away.

A museum officer stepped toward Indiana and Marcus as they cleared the last stair. "Good day Dr Jones. Mr. Brody." At each name the uniform-clad man stretched out his hand in greeting and politeness. With a professional slight inclination of the head and a curt smile, the officer produced the number of the boardroom and its location and left them to enter alone. Walking close to one another Marcus and Indy passed under an arch leading to the mammoth doorway. The young Jones extended his hand, letting his fingertips brush gently over the surface of the intricately embossed masonry. At the end of the passageway a plaque was worked into the wall. Engraved with silver, the inscription upon it read: Bingham Metropolitan Museum of Antiquity, in large gothic print. Beneath in smaller script was _Antiquitas Aeturnus_, history eternal.

The door beneath the plaque, hung on gilded hinges, was slightly ajar. Marcus tugged it open with relative ease, and seconds later the men were engulfed by the building's labyrinth of exhibits and corridors.


	7. Legend Become Obscurity

_Revised. Enjoy._

**DISCLAIMER**: I don't own Jack… I mean, Indy, etc. I do own Alicia Porter, etc.

**VII**

Marcus and Indy emerged from a hallway into a large, dimly lit chamber, heralded only by the hollow echo of their footsteps. Glass cases filled with thousand-year-old relics appeared ghostly in the shadows of the room; this place held a heavy antiquated feeling – hallowed and reverent, archaic and musty. Indy's nose tickled threateningly from the stale and lingering dust that hung perpetually in the air, but he stifled the urge to sneeze automatically, as if adhering to some cardinal rule kept deep within himself that to disturb the atmosphere of the room would be blasphemy. Marcus, appearing to govern himself by that same secret code, nodded his head silently toward the far end of the chamber indicating that the boardroom lay just on the other side. In passing from the room of artifacts Indiana fondly acknowledged an article encased on the wall, tracing his fingers lightly over the surface of the case. Wearing a private smile, the archaeologist departed for the boardroom; the Cross of Coronado shone softly beneath the glass, suspended behind him in the semi-darkness.

The moment Indy's hand contacted the doorknob, he had the odd impression he was shaking hands with Fate. If this was in fact Destiny's decree, Indy decided reluctantly he had no reasonable choice other than to accept. Entering, Marcus and Indy let the door click shut behind them. An ominous quiet permeated the space of the boardroom broken by the intermittent rustling of papers. It was as if those assembled – and there were far less than Marcus had described, they both noticed – had been waiting anxiously for them to arrive. Alicia looked up with what Indy thought was a slight smile. Her advisor, Ivan, sat to her right, looking sullen and serious with his elbows on the table, his fingertips pressed up against each other, resting together contemplatively in front of his face. The awareness of a new presence in the room came upon him like awakening from a dream.

A young man who was standing to the side, against the wall, addressed Marcus and Indy as they tentatively approached two open chairs at the slate blue conference table. "Greetings, Mr. Brody and Dr. Jones," he said, suavely articulating each syllable. An impeccable dresser, the man wore his hair neatly cropped and slicked back; Indy knew him at once as a fed. "Take your seats, gentlemen, please" — he motioned as they slid into their seats — "and we will get to introductions. My name is Michael Hatfield," he paused, running a hand over his tie although it was already pressed to perfection, "from the government intelligence division of the International Archaeology and Preservation Association." Again, a hesitance, as if Mr. Hatfield were giving them all a chance to be sufficiently impressed. Indy's attention slackened slightly as Mr. Hatfield continued, letting his eyes wander around the room. His softly scrutinizing gaze roved over Alicia's face and found her just as beautiful as he remembered her, if not more so. Her attention was elsewhere, but she disengaged her hazel eyes from Mr. Hatfield in time to catch Indy's and smiled faintly in his direction.

"— and lastly, Dr. Addison Rawls, renowned Archaeologist and Professor of South-American Civilization," said Michael Hatfield, indicating the portly, middle-aged and balding man sitting at the head of the table whom Indy recognized only by reputation. The corners of Hatfield's mouth turned slightly upward with the effect of a cold, curt and professional smile. "We have been working closely with Dr. Rawls concerning an area of great interest to national security — as well as, I'm sure you'll soon see — Archaeology. I may take this moment to note that, given the seriousness of this matter," said Hatfield, raising an eyebrow and regarding those in the room closely, "we must all be agreed that no information shared within this room be transferred to anybody else." Marcus stared intently at Hatfield, his hands folded underneath his chin, and Indy glanced at Marcus, increasingly wary of what was being said. Unless this Hatfield was just acting important for the sake of a first impression, it looked like this could be messy.

"Now, Dr. Rawls, if you would please illustrate our purpose," said Hatfield, inviting the portly professor to stand with a fluid gesture of his hand. He slid carefully into the nearest chair, across from Indy and Marcus and down from Alicia, transferring his focus fully to Dr. Rawls.

The man rubbed his balding head nervously, as if used to brushing hair that was no longer there away from his eyes. Clearing his throat and nodding to the assemblage, he began the task of explanation, a slight glint of excitement playing around his eyes that was not noticeable in his voice, which was staid with the significance of the information he was about to impart.

"Our purpose," opened Dr. Rawls, glancing furtively at Michael for approval, "concerns a find of extreme importance. I'm sure you're all familiar with Hiram's discoveries in the Incan Valley?"

Indy cleared his throat. He felt like he was about to participate in a poorly scripted dialogue. What did this Rawls think, that he was an idiot?

"You're referring to Hiram Bingham uncovering Machu Piccu, the singular groundbreaking find of 1911?" said Indy with a touch of curtness.

"Why, certainly."

"So?" Cut to the chase, already. I teach history; I don't need a seminar on it.

Addison Rawls was flustered by Indy's brusque tone, and hid it poorly. His pair of absurdly busy eyebrows appeared to trip over each other as he formulated a response.

"Precisely. Thank you, Dr. Jones. If anyone else has anything to add at any time, please, do so." Dr. Rawls' attempt at a gracious smile dissolved before it solicited any benefit.

Suddenly his voice went hollow with memory. "During my tenure as co-professor with Hiram, I caught glimpses in him of things he hadn't revealed about his discovery."

Those gathered beheld Dr. Rawls with wary attention. Was this one long drawn-out attempt at dramatics and suspense, or would it actually go somewhere? All who wondered looked to Michael Hatfield, who nodded encouragingly toward Addison.

The portly archaeologist's countenance darkened to a more somber shade. "Alicia," he said, targeting her with his words and his eyes, but addressing them all, "your uncle Gregory might have even more insight into this than I."

"Why Gregory Hamilton," Marcus interjected, apparently out of the loop. " I wasn't aware he…"

"My uncle worked with Hiram for quite a long time, partly during the Machu Piccu dig. At least until Bingham's disappearance." Alicia placed her hands on the table, her long fingers flexed against its polished surface. "Uncle Gregory might have been here today, if I could have persuaded him, but I think he's past even listening to me now. I haven't seen him in over two years, and the last I heard, he was living secluded somewhere in Belize." Judging by the slight tensing of her body and the look in her eyes, Indy could tell this separation was bearing down hard on her. Gregory Hamilton had been her second father, when her own had been killed. Even before his death, Jonathan Porter was hardly paternal: a drunk, paranoid, mostly out-of-work journalist, and so his daughter was forced to turn to another, for her own emotional welfare. Gregory had received her with open arms and heart, and had taught her nearly everything she had ever learned. Without even attending college for the subject, Alicia could give a lecture on archaeology that would impress most professors.

A grave silence formed in the midst of the conversation. Indy was more than accustomed with the idea of sudden disappearances; to the others in the room, the idea was unnerving, especially in connection with someone like Hiram Bingham, who was hard-pressed to stay out of the spotlight.

"Hiram's documentation of the find is incomplete," continued Dr. Rawls after a few moments. "There is an entire section of the city that he neither made notes on, nor mapped. When I visited him on site, the man was not himself half the time. Occasionally when we were walking together and I neared one of several seemingly commonplace structures or inquired about some markings, Hiram would immediately draw my attention elsewhere. His mannerisms often alarmed me, but as his good friend I tried to be understanding."

"What reason would Bingham have had to act like that?" Indy probed, sensing something amiss – something unordinary – but not knowing quite why.

"In his sleep sometimes, he'd ramble and have fits. I'd be up writing notes and couldn't help listening. The words were predominantly incomprehensible, but one thing I did catch repeatedly was 'Shem, the guardian.' He repeated it over and over. Then Hiram would be taken by a short fit of convulsion, and sometimes I would go over to him, fearing for his health. If I ever got close enough to touch him, he snapped awake – eyes wide open and staring upward, his body completely still. The first time I thought he might be dead… but then he would take a sudden gasping breath and sit up, completely fine, knowing nothing that had happened." Dr. Rawls swallowed. His gaze had become straightforward and glassy. "When I asked about the guardian, he seemed genuinely confused. It perplexes me still."

Marcus stirred from the light slumber he'd slipped into, raising himself from where he'd been slumped, cradling his face in his palms. The sound of Indy's voice had propelled him into consciousness. "The guardian Shem? The concept of 'Shem' is Sumerian. I don't see why that would tie in at all during a Machu Piccu dig." Indy's expression was pensive as he searched for a connection.

The man beside Alicia, Ian, broke his pattern of silence. "You seem to know a little of everything, Dr. Jones." There was a moderate accent to his words that was unexpected to everyone except Alicia. Indy felt it had a Slovakian flavor. "Does the word 'Shem' have a particular meaning in Sumerian?"

"It's the name of a pictograph. Shem and the character Mu – actually, they're counterparts of a whole – translate to 'fiery rockets' or 'sky ships.'" Jones shrugged, still striving to complete the puzzle. "Odd that something from the Crescent would carry so far."

Indy turned to Rawls, for the first time addressing him objectively. "Did Bingham do any extensive research on the Crescent?"

"Not to my knowledge. His focus was always Mesoamerica."

Michael Hatfield stirred, rising to adjust the shutters. Indy tired to ignore the visual distraction; the archaeologist's mind was avidly searching for the illusive connection between Sumeria and the Incas. It shouldn't exist, yet there it was… unexplained…

"Dr. Jones," said Alicia, politely but with an imperative edge, as if on the verge of impatience. He got the impression she'd said it more than once, attempting to catch his attention.

"Hmmm?" Indy snapped out of his preoccupation, mildly annoyed at being interrupted. He knew he'd made no real progress, but still there was the feeling of a ghosted premonition waiting on the other side of what would have been his next few thoughts, and the feeling irked him.

"Do you have any light to shed on why Hiram would be mentioning the pictograph in Machu Piccu – assuming it wasn't even there on site, as it obviously shouldn't have been? I suppose it's possible that he picked it up somewhere and was confusing it with something in his sleep."

Indy shook his head. "No clue. It seems kind of fishy, though."

"I see." Alicia paused, chasing her former train of thought. "Well then, after that, I think Uncle Gregory was the last to hear from Bingham. He wrote several letters, never saying where he'd gone, always including portions of his discovery notes. As time went on I suppose he became more eccentric; the letters became shorter and more cryptic. The last few were just pages of notes on the dig. We never quite understood it." Her countenance darkened as she became quiet and pensive.

"And so legend became obscurity," added Marcus, filling in the silence with something odd, as he always did. But even Marcus's strange takes on things had their dose of profundity and truth.

Indy meant not to vocalize the idea that was bouncing around his head, but it came out anyway. "Would you mind if I took a look at those notes – if you still have them? Maybe I could figure something out."

"Yes, I do, actually. Uncle Gregory left them to me when he departed the city. You're welcome to them."

Ivan twitched slightly, but nobody noticed. He seemed engrossed in toying with his cufflink while everyone else looked to Indy.

Damnit, I just hooked myself. Indy sighed inwardly. So be it.

"Supposing you find something," said Michael Hatfield, amusedly pressing his fingertips together. "All this mystery and conspiracy… there has to be something behind it." The look in his eyes nearly dared Indy to back down. It was playful, dangerous and challenging.

Indy was too practiced at this game to be intimidated. "Supposing I do. I guess I'll have to do something about it," said Indy, his jaw set.

Marcus raised his eyebrows, although he'd figured this would be the outcome all along. Not surprising. I'd have had good odds if only there had been someone to bet against, he entertained.

Hatfield stood up again, apparently about to say something, but froze with his mouth agape. The rest noted his tense poise and followed the path of Hatfield's stare. The boardroom door was creaking open by miniscule degrees. No light entered from the outside; the corridor was as dark as formerly.

Indy's body was rigid, his attention intent. He thought he heard something on the other side. Glancing at Hatfield, Indy could see that the agent was assuming the same.

"Hello?" the fed ventured, trying to see further into the darkness. His hand slid inconspicuously to the holster beneath his suit coat.

Indy glanced toward the door once more, catching Alicia in his line of sight. She seemed alarmed and confused. Ivan's hand was clasped onto her right forearm, and he leaned close to her to whisper something into her ear.

Marcus began to rise, a little unsure. Indy reached out a hand to stop him. The door continued to swing open after its initial suspension. The dim light revealed nothing out of the ordinary, but still there was something unsettling.

Hatfield drew his pistol and clicked the safety off, moving toward the door. A raspy wheezing greeted him from the corridor. Still several feet away, the fed spoke into the shadows. "I'm sorry, sir; this is a _private_ meeting." His voice was tense but not nervous as he spoke through half-gritted teeth.

There was no spoken answer; instead a low, masculine growl issued from the hallway, and simultaneously the door sprang open. Hatfield faced the burly and imposing silhouette, which came toward him with violent force.

Alicia screamed and she, Ivan and Dr. Rawls threw themselves under the table. Indy pulled Marcus downward and left him with the others and crept around the side, close to the floor. He had to remind himself that he was unarmed.

The unidentified visitor charged Hatfield, who tried to jump out of the way, but instead bumped the wall. The man hit him as he pulled the trigger of his pistol, causing a misfire. Indy had maneuvered himself at the man's back and jumped, wrapping his arms around the intruder's neck. The burly man was caught by surprise and responded by slamming Indy backward and firing his semi-automatic in Hatfield's direction. Michael, recuperating quickly, responded with two blasts from his pistol. One hit the wall near Indy, who suddenly thought better of being on the man's back and threw himself off. "Geez!" he exclaimed, shaken from nearly being shot.

Hatfield hardly noticed. Within moments, he was backed into a corner and nearly intimate with the intruder. He had been hit in the leg by the bullet spray and was nearly immobile. The agent raised his gun again, but not in time. The man slammed him in the cheekbone with the butt end of his firearm, causing Hatfield to sputter and drop his gun.

"Give me the Porter girl," the man snarled in a heavy Russian accent.

Indy followed Hatfield's pistol with his eyes as it dropped knowing, however, that it was too far away to grab. The Cossack sensed the archaeologist's movement behind him and wheeled to face Indy, his weapon cocked. Indy jumped out the door, grabbing the handle to close it behind him. Throwing his weight against it, he flung the door back open, catching the Cossack in the side of the face.

Indy dove for Hatfield's abandoned pistol as the man stumbled backward, reeling. He squeezed the trigger, putting a bullet in the large man's belly. The Cossack uttered a bellowing growl. With his face twisted in a grotesque expression of anger, he continued to fall. Hitting the table, the large man lost hold of his gun. As it hit the floor, the semi-automatic discharged, sending a round spastically skyward.

Indy felt movement near his feet as bodies slid from underneath the table. Ivan saw that the path to the door was free and took the opportunity, dragging a frightened Alicia alongside. Dr. Rawls, acting on instinct that was still intact beneath the shock, crawled and staggered afterward.

The archaeologist had tried to warn them that there were probably others in the hall, but was preoccupied momentarily by his adversary, who seemed to be rallying for another attack. Indy attempted another shot, only to find an apparent lack of bullets. Hatfield hadn't kept the gun fully loaded.

_Shit_.

Indy dodged a clumsy punch but nevertheless caught the full weight of the Cossack in his torso. His head ringing, Indy managed to elbow the man in the face with his left and hooked a right. In the peripheral sight of both lay the semi-automatic. Snarling, the professor delivered another quick elbow to the underside of the man's jaw. It bought him just enough time. Stooping down and snatching the weapon, he buried it in the Cossack's abdomen.

"You picked a bad day to piss me off, buddy," Indy growled, pumping out a round.

As the man slumped over, Indy ducked to look for Marcus and found him in a far corner. "Let's get out of here," the young Jones said, out of breath. "I doubt this guy's alone."

Marcus glanced at Hatfield, finding him bloodied and out cold, then reproachfully at Indy.

"Listen. Marcus, we don't have time." His countenance was stern and somber, his eyes anxious. It was true that Hatfield didn't deserve to be left behind. However, Indy would rather it be one of them than all three. Resolutely turning toward the door, he grabbed his friend's arm and led him quickly out of the boardroom. The echo of several sets of approaching footsteps proved Indy's point.

Toting the gun, the tenacious Jones set the pace for an express exit. "Whatever that guy meant with Alicia is serious business. " He lowered his voice. "Now I've gotten myself into it." The older man nodded, glancing furtively down the visible hallways. They had reached the foyer, with only one more open space standing between them and the way out.

Indy caught sight of another substantially muscular man coming toward the same foyer from an adjacent hallway. Keeping Marcus from view, he used the turn in the wall for cover. Peeking around it, Indy fired, hoping the man hadn't seen where he'd shot from, in case he missed his mark. Ambushed, the man was caught by the spray and fell. He yelled out as the two men bolted across the room and toward the door.

Once outside, Indy ditched the gun. Even the most self-involved New Yorker would have noticed that sort of thing in a heartbeat. The archaeologist stifled the urge for a stiff drink and looked to Marcus as they hurriedly crossed the street.

"I don't trust that Ivan guy, Marcus … I'm going on a hunch, but I'm going to find Alicia. Nothing says that there aren't more of those guys – whoever they are – lurking elsewhere." Indy's tone was touched with determination and slightly with worry, his steps with resolution.

Marcus agreed quickly. "He did seem rather odd." Narrowing his eyes at his friend, the older man bid the younger goodbye and wished him luck.

Indy set off toward his apartment, only intending to stop long enough to pick up his revolver and a few necessities. He'd be damned if he let himself be in a situation like that again – running on pure luck was like running on fumes: it gets you halfway to where you need to be and then you're screwed.


	8. Paths Diverge

**VIII**

**Disclaimer: **Same old, same old. Indy is not mine. Neither is anyone you recognize. Ivan and Alicia are my main brainchildren.

_Have fun with this one… things are starting to get interesting, and mysterious!_

The archaeologist strode against the flow of pedestrians, seeming to be the only one fighting the current. Steering away from a defeatist mindset, Indy snuffed the idea that this was an attempt on a cosmic level to keep him from progressing toward his destination. Although, the rest of the day hadn't exactly been a cakewalk…

Indy knew that haste was an issue, if his hunches were even partially correct. And, as a man that owed his survival – several times over – to gut feelings, Indy wasn't one to deny them often. He certainly paid more attention to them after the fairly recent incident with his father; if Indy had trusted his impulses more, perhaps that terribly inconvenient detainment at the Grunewald castle could have been avoided…

_But that was then_, Indy decided, pushing all inklings of the turbulent past from his mind. The intersection of 116th and Central Park West lay several hundred feet ahead now, quite a welcome landmark, as the archaeologist's apartment was less than a block beyond. His hand was open in expectant anticipation for the handle of the outermost door even though Indy was still reasonably far away. Grasping it with vigor, he swung the door open, ignoring an elderly man who clearly expected the younger pedestrian to hold the door for him. The man scooted backward in a flustered manner as he was almost knocked over on the backswing, huffing incredulously, as if his pride had been wounded severely. He smoothed down the front of his tweed jacket with theatric finesse, promptly turned around, and decided he had not really wanted to enter the building after all. Not that any of this caught the slightest fraction of Indy's attention, however, as he was nearly at the stairs now, having overtaken the lobby in a minimal number of long strides.

Indy continued up the dual flights, taking stairs two and three at a time, simultaneously fishing for the key in his pocket. He entered the apartment with the same quickness that had propelled him through the city congestion, which could be suffocating on a good day. It relieved Indy to know that he had made remarkably good time, but the feeling was brief, and the underlying motivation resurfaced. It was inherent that he couldn't slacken his pace until he made sure that Alicia was safe. Not anticipating a particularly lengthy outing – this anticipation being on the markedly optimistic side – Indy went directly for the essentials: webley, fedora, whip and jacket. Halfway through dressing and equipping himself, the archaeologist locked the door and was off toward the stairs once more. His constant and desperate hope was that she hadn't relocated since returning to Manhattan.

Ivan wound his way through the same crowd that had engulfed Indy, pulling Alicia along, close behind. She noticed that his movements were furtive and mechanical; the man seemed to be on a mission – but for what purpose, Alicia hardly wanted to think. This wasn't him at all. Ivan was the over-analytical, cool-headed sort – diplomatic, reasonable. Seven months ago, he had started out as her advisor, a bodyguard of sorts, and their relationship had grown, fed by his kindness and her eagerness. His former self seemed to have drifted upwards on a wisp of circumstance, the new qualities slowly settling down to fill the void, still floating above her comprehension.

Alicia could feel her limbs moving, although she couldn't imagine that she was controlling them. The numbness and disbelief caused by the morning's events had now wholly consumed her. Alicia was little more than a marionette – deaf and dumb to the world, her stiff body being dragged by taut strings. The pain that she had felt when Ivan had harshly grabbed her wrist had by now faded to a tingling. Alicia only realized that he had not let go from the constant jerking that punctuated her forward motion. Looking down, the blonde saw the angry red skin beneath his fingers, tinged with the purple of a new bruise.

The constant movement of the pair was halted momentarily by commotion at a nearby intersection. A disgruntled pedestrian idled in the crosswalk, impeding a swarm of police cars. The frustrated and anxious expressions of the officers inside, blazing lights and cacophony of sirens said that they were headed to something big, and they wanted to be there thirty seconds ago. Alicia had a good idea where that would be.

The obstruction finally found his legs and stumbled out of the crosswalk, to the shoulder of the road. The last of the police cars in line pulled over, and out of it came a rather perturbed deputy. The pedestrian strode away moments later clutching a ticket for J-walking and a slight attitude problem.

Ivan pushed forward once again, calculating that there were two blocks left to go.

"Do you have your keys?" he asked Alicia, without turning his head. It was the first thing he had said since dragging her from the museum.

Now that the silence was broken, words flooded to Alicia's lips. "Yes – What's going on, I – "

"Questions can wait until we're behind closed doors," said Ivan hastily, cutting her off so quickly she nearly bit her tongue. Hurt, Alicia fell instantly quiet, left to wonder what she could not say aloud. _What is going on? Why won't Ian tell me anything? Did any of the others escape? _A pang of grief. _What about Indy?_ She remembered the echoes of gunshots as they dashed through the hallways.

The apartment building loomed half a block ahead. Ivan broke into a light jog, and Alicia lengthened her strides to keep up. The building was less of a welcomed sight than she had expected it would be. Not one bit of this felt right.


	9. LaSalle and Claremont

_Author's note: Sorry this took so long. I've been going through a lot of stuff, and I'll save you the details. Let's just say it was more than a vengeful case of writer's block. This is kind of a long one, but I don't think you'll mind, considering that I'm long overdue. That's if anyone still reads this. I really do apologize._

Disclaimer: By now, you should be wise to the fact that I don't own the original Indy characters. I do own Ivan, Alicia, Gregory and a few others. Booyah.

* * *

.IX.

A few minutes after Indy had left his apartment, he found himself skeptical of his hunches, but at the intersection of LaSalle and Claremont nevertheless. Looking up at the thirteen-story building, the archaeologist took a breath so deep that his lungs ached.

Indiana pulled the first door open and entered the building's vestibule, focusing beyond the view of the lobby through the glass of the second set of doors. Indy emerged into the yellow-lit space; something about the warmth and brightness send the circus in his gut into intermission. Indy felt he was close.

A meandering thought connected. For some reason that Indy couldn't contribute to clear memory, the eleventh floor seemed to ring a bell. Thinking back to the last time he'd been in this building, the archaeologist fuzzily recalled standing downstairs, here, with Alicia saying his goodbyes. She'd invited him up to prolong the visit, but Indy had declined. Surprising, especially to anyone who knew anything about Indy's usual mischievous tendencies; however, he hadn't wanted to complicate that parting any more than it already had been. God knows that sort of thing had happened enough times. Gregory Hamilton – Uncle Gregory to Alicia – was quite a good friend, and technically, at that point, a partner-in-crime of sorts. Alicia was a beautiful girl, and interesting, certainly, but it was a situation Indy smartly restrained himself from. He remembered her slow, charming smile. "The elevator only takes a minute to go up eleven floors, if it's the prospect of climbing the stairs that you don't like," she'd said. He could almost feel the tingling pressure of her lips on his cheek, where she had kissed him that day. Indy could also recall the essence of moist breath on his ear, but not the room number that she'd whispered into it, in case he ended up changing his mind.

Definitely the eleventh floor, though. That, at least, was a solid start. _Wait_. As the archaeologist exited his reverie, something reoccurred to him. _The details_. _Marcus, you're good for way more than I ever give you credit for_. Indy glanced to the wall housing the tenants' mailboxes, right next to which were the intercom buttons. Each was linked to its prospective tenant by a number and a last name. Porter, 21. _Bingo, mystery solved_.

Behind Indy, a mover struggled with a grossly overloaded cart. The impending disaster was clear; Indiana witnessed the lopsided mass tip with merely an eye-roll, turning toward the stairs as the sound of boxes colliding with the floor continued for several seconds. Not willing to wait for damage control to clean up new arrivals' belongings, Indiana turned to the stairs with a rueful groan. Eleven floors – Alicia's comment may have been sardonic, but it was no joke. The archaeologist pulled himself up the first few tiers with the handrail, and commenced a lengthy ascent.

Ivan pulled the apartment door closed as he passed through. Alicia, whom Ivan had ushered in ahead of himself, turned to him seeming bewildered and spooked. He perceived, by the turbulence in her deep green eyes, that she wanted answers; all he was willing to – or would – provide were more questions.

Alicia meant to stand defiantly, but the uncommon weakness that overtook her still lingered. She felt still, a corrugate copy of her usual willful self. Her arms ached as she held them crossed. For a second, the blonde's attention flitted to the foyer mirror. Her reflection came back to her in the amber-colored afternoon light – a dissatisfaction. Whereas Alicia's features normally held a healthy blush, her flesh looked pale. Instinctively, Alicia was on guard without quite being able to understand why. _Whatever this feeling is_, she thought, _I'm here now, so I'd better figure something out_. The silence had become an uncomfortable barrier.

Ivan was feeling increasingly less of the adrenaline that had followed him from the museum. His thoughts had been racing ahead of him on the way here, and he easily collected them at the doorstep like so much baggage. He noticed Alicia's furtive glance toward the mirror and took note of all the same abnormalities. Sliding back into his casual self, Ivan examined Alicia, instantly catching the gist of her concerns when she returned her attention to him. Departing from his standoffishness, Ivan affected a reassuring vibe.

"God, what insanity," Ivan said, breaking the barricade with a touch of irony in his voice. The statement emerged with exactly the right salve to momentarily soothe Alicia's suspicions.

He moved toward her slowly, like someone approaching a wounded and wary animal. Alicia's posture lost some of its rigidity, but still she hesitated. Unconsciously, she fingered the bruise on her wrist. A wounded animal she was, indeed, but one suppressing the impulse for flight in favor of curiosity. Ivan continued to move forward until he was quite close enough to touch her, but stopped a foot short. He could hear her heart beating – not pulses, but insecurities. He inclined his head toward her.

"Are you alright?" asked Ivan, his words so soft that they rested upon the vessel of his exhalation like a feather on a calm wind.

She closed the space between them and timidly slipped her arms around him. The action of it felt so wonderfully routine, yet it was hard to ignore a certain minute, unexplainable discomfort. "Yes," came her prolonged response, "I think so."

Unexpectedly, Alicia pulled back. Still posing as emotional therapist, Ivan was careful not to make any sudden or out-of-character movements; he merely looked at her questioningly. Judging by the girl's troubled visage, obviously she wanted to say something, but couldn't decide on the right way to put it.

Finally the words bubbled to Alicia's lips. She attempted to relay them without any sense of accusation; Ivan's behavior very much perplexed her, and just in case he was in any way unstable, Alicia wanted to avoid upsetting him. "Do you have any idea about what that was? Back at the museum?"

The query was completely anticipated. Incredulously, he conjectured. "Hell if I know." He paused, as if connecting fragments of ideas. Alicia had tried to do the math earlier but ended up with nothing. This was considerably unfamiliar territory for the blonde; the common opinion of Alicia held that she was an astute and discerning individual, far from prone to having the wool pulled over her eyes – in some ways, a regular Holmes. Ivan turned to what he considered to be the obvious. It was probably best to work from the basics anyway. "That man was certainly pretty serious about whatever he was doing. What with waving those guns around." He flailed his hands around in the air for emphasis, as if she couldn't remember the terrifying even detail by detail. Her heart nearly stopped when she realized that Indy hadn't ducked beneath the table to seek cover. She had peeked out, fretful that an ill fate might befall her former friend. She'd heard dozens of times from her Uncle and other friends and colleagues that the young Jones was more than able to take care of himself; his tendency to cheat death was relatively well-known. Regardless, Alicia didn't trust that streak to continue indefinitely. She had kept her eyes trained on Indy up until the point that Ivan dragged her out into the corridor. Alicia fought the urge to tear free of his restraint and run back into the boardroom. What could she have done anyway? She would have probably gotten herself killed.

Alicia got a bit defensive, annoyed that Ivan apparently had no concern for Mr. Hastings or Indiana. "Well, certainly. They must have been after something. I'd already thought of that. What I'm trying to get to is what." She spoke with a bit of a sting, her arms folded across her chest. A welling up of emotion pursued her, which she did her best to elude. "For all I know, Indi–er, Henry could be dead." Alicia closed her eyes and willed the moisture to subside.

"Nonsense." Ivan brushed that possibility aside. "Now, think. Is there anything that you could have that would be valuable to someone?"

The blonde took a glance around the apartment, the rooms within her line of vision didn't hold much: the kitchen contained the expected hardware; the living room, a few books and nothing else. She took a quick mental inventory. Her Uncle had been mentioned – could it have anything to do with him? "What if it isn't me? It could be Rawlings, or someone else. We weren't the only people in that room."

"Well, of course. But really, you were the topic of discussion, indirectly." Ivan grew impatient. Alicia seemed to be dodging his initial question. "Alicia." He took hold of her hands and looked into her eyes, assuring her attention was again fully his. "Anything that you know of." His speech was slow, almost as if he was talking to a child. In some ways Ivan recognized Alicia as grown-up, but he also detected insecurities and remnants of the childhood she was never wholly granted clinging to her. Sometimes she needed to be shepherded.

"Well, nothing that I would consider important, really. Maybe some stuff from Uncle Gregory… I've looked through that though, and it wouldn't really be of use to anyone other than him. Even I can't read some of it, and I lived with him."

This is what he had been hoping to hear. Something like this might actually get them somewhere. "Maybe I could help you look through it again?" he suggested. "If you looked at it a long time ago, you might have a better insight now."

She hesitated, unconsciously pushing his hands away from her. It had briefly crossed her mind that this might be the best route to take. A flat, briefcase-like safe sat tucked in the back corner of Alicia's bedroom closet. She hadn't opened it within the space of a few years. The top of it was probably host to a reasonably thick layer of dust now, but for as little attention as she paid it, its contents had been an underlying presence in her life. The documents and small items within had been awfully important to Uncle Gregory, some written in a script even he said he couldn't decipher. When his niece had inquired why she had been asked to watch over them, the archaeologist seemed not to favor a direct answer. With caring warmth in his eyes and a smile that emphasized the well-worn laugh lines in his face, Uncle Gregory only said that he'd wanted to get them off of his mind for a bit. Out of sight, out of mind, he had figured – as per the old adage.

Even though Gregory carried and portrayed himself as a businesslike "serious type," an inescapable aura of charm and slight silliness sat like a halo over him. He had passed this illumination on to his niece during his adventure as a parent to the free-spirited blonde, who at the beginning of their match-up was only eight. She was more familiar with him than anyone else he knew, and yet even the closest people to mysterious men cannot explore all of their enigmas. Therefore, instead of pursuing what she thought must be a real reason underlying Gregory's dismissive response, Alicia allowed the whole thing to be swept under the carpet and played along. Curious little girls grow up into curious adults, though, and so it had simmered continually upon the back burner of her consciousness.

Ivan paced in a small circle across the carpet, watching the track of flattened fibers form in the pale cream.

"If we're going to do that, maybe I should get a hold of Uncle Gregory," proposed Alicia. She hadn't much of an idea concerning where to start with the contents of the safe. "I don't even know very much about any of it. He just sort of passed his things off to me to hang onto for a while, which probably means he wants them back." This was most likely true – if Gregory seemed to leave loose ends, it was only because he intended to come back later and tie them up in his own good time. It had occurred to her that if there was a reason for leaving his things with her, there was also probably a reason why he kept it in a safe. "My little confidant," he had used to call her, stressing the importance of trust between them. A life-lesson held dear to her heart from the man she considered a truer father than the one to whom she owed her pretty looks. Even if he hadn't explained himself, she was decided that he could trust her now.

"Well," returned Ivan, "what if we don't have the time?" His eyebrows slightly raised, Ivan's handsome face donned lines of worry and insistence.

The shrill, tinny ringing of a phone permeated the apartment. Alicia wondered if she should let it go, but Ivan waved her away. As she walked toward the persistent jingle, Ivan turned and let himself fall backward onto the leather divan. The ringing ceased as Alicia's fingertips contacted and lifted the receiver. Her soft and controlled greeting floated to Ivan, who was slouched forward, resting his forehead against the fingers of one hand contemplatively. Unexpectedly, Alicia's voice became more brisk and pleasantly excited. The thinker straightened his posture with interest, looking toward the kitchen, or rather at a wall behind which the kitchen and Alicia were. From this angle, they were out of view. Getting up, he traversed and leaned against the doorless frame. Alicia glanced over her shoulder, aware of Ivan's presence behind her. She met his inquisitiveness with a congenial smile as she continued to converse. Alicia mouthed "Uncle Gregory," pointing a finger at the phone, during a pause which meant the unseen party was speaking.

"Tomorrow?……….. I see… Yes, it's quite a surprise! I should scold you for not telling me beforehand, but I've missed you so much that I'll forget about it…… Mmmhmmm……….. Hold on a second, and I'll get some paper." She set the receiver down and began hunting through drawers. Ivan tapped her on the shoulder and kindly handed her a sheet of stationery. Returning to the phone, Alicia held the receiver between her chin and shoulder. Her hand moved quickly across the paper, she said goodbye, and hung up.

With a sly and interested finesse, Ivan said, "What a coincidence, huh?" The news from her Uncle had lightened Alicia's mood significantly. Upon receiving his call, it felt as if everything dismal had lifted. Gregory was slated to arrive in the City sometime late tomorrow afternoon. What a breath of fresh air it would be to see him. She didn't feel silly communicating her misgivings to him, the way she did when she considered telling anyone else those secret, silent things. And he could shed a lot of light on this situation, she was sure of it.

"Yes, it's very interesting timing, isn't it? Truthfully, it's been far too long since I've had the chance to really talk to him. And after all this, I could really use his company." She quickly added, "Not that you haven't calmed my nerves, Ivan." The color had returned to Alicia's flesh, even to the point that she appeared a little flushed. She felt much more alive than she had ten minutes ago.

"So you want to wait for him then?"

Her mouth dropped open slightly in shock at Ivan's statement. "Of course I am! How could you think that I wouldn't?"

"I'm just looking out for your safety. You know that." Ivan approached Alicia, appealing to her sense of caution with an unspoken plea that resided in the depths of his metallic-blue eyes. She stared into the limitless abyss, so deep did it seem that she could not even see her reflection. Ivan's ability to speak volumes without words had always intrigued Alicia. Communication was always so much more powerful when language didn't get in the way.

She touched his arm tenderly. "I know." Pausing, her brow furrowed. Alicia didn't want to leave before Gregory arrived, yet she realized the tangibility of the danger that had so far pursued her. "If it does have anything to do with Gregory or whatever I have of his, I think it would be wiser to wait until he can help us clarify all of it."

Ivan was stubborn, persistent about his earlier proposal. "I really think we should at least see what we're dealing with. If we look over it and none of it seems overly important or – I don't know – _threatening_, then we can move on to another possibility. We may not even need to waste the time."

"Maybe you're right. But I'd really rather have him here." A mental picture of the safe flashed into her consciousness. She trusted Ivan, didn't she? He'd just recently moved in with her. That must mean something in the way of trust… And still, something within her was utterly against it. She considered once more.

"So?"

"I've decided I'm waiting. Something doesn't feel right."

Ivan was exasperated. "All I'm asking you for is one simple thing. I'm trying to protect you, for God's sake!"

Alicia chewed on her lower lip. She didn't want to deal with this, half imagining turning heel, grabbing her coat, and escaping out somewhere into the streets. There she could blend in. These people wouldn't find her, she would be part of the crowd, the antithesis of an individual. But that was ridiculous. Alicia was angry at herself for even inventing the scenario of running away, and without knowing it, bit too hard. A trickle of blood met her tongue with a metallic taste.

"Just show me where it is," implored Ivan in a soft voice, leaning close. You don't have to even look at the stuff if you don't want to. I'll take all responsibility in the case that your Uncle gets a little upset about the invasion of privacy."

Alicia said nothing, thought nothing, looked at the floor.

Sudden anger got the best of Ivan. "Damn it Alicia!" he growled. "You won't do anything to help yourself. Do you want to get me killed too?"

She hardly even felt herself move, nor did she plan the outburst. "No! I don't know what to do!" Tears threatening to spill from her eyes, Alicia bolted for the door. She felt cornered, as she always did when people pressed her for answers she hadn't had the time to come up with.

Ivan's longer strides brought him into her path well before she reached the exit. Still in her instinctual fog, Alicia struck out, inflicting insignificant blows onto the chest of her blockade. Ivan reached up. A powerful grip connected with Alicia's slender neck. She sputtered, surprised and alarmed as he backed her up against the wall. When the impact of what had happened fully reached her, she would not have been able to breathe even if Ivan's fingers had not constricted her throat. The tears that had been on the verge leaked from her eyes as she choked. The man she saw now was a terrible creature, unidentifiable as the Ivan she knew, or thought she knew.

Ivan's blue eyes glinted like steel in the fierce glow of a forge-fire. Alicia was unable to tear hers away, bloodshot and watery though they were, regardless of the fact that she could hardly see. Angry and terrified, she locked her jaw and squirmed against the wall. Her arms felt weak and useless, but she clawed at Ivan's hand anyway. It didn't seem to have any effect.

Darkness crept into Alicia's vision. She felt sick, and time seemed to stop entirely. She fought the slip into unconsciousness, at last hearing Ivan speak. "You will show me what your Uncle gave you, Alicia. I'm not asking." His lips barely moved.


End file.
